


Breakfast After Ten

by Whreflections



Series: Carolina verse [3]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Developing Relationship, M/M, Making Out, but no actual sex here sorry, there are references to sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-04
Updated: 2013-04-04
Packaged: 2017-12-07 10:38:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/747568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/pseuds/Whreflections
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac goes over to Jehan's to talk to him about what exactly making out with each other while drunk might mean.  (Also, later, he and Grantaire discuss Grantaire and Enjolras' sex life.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breakfast After Ten

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. This one is mostly Courfeyrac/Jehan centered, but there is Grantaire, and talk of e/R. 
> 
> 2\. I am loving this verse so...I really hope you guys do too, <3
> 
> 3\. Title comes from a Blue October song that is one of my favorite songs ever...but much like Carolina Drama has nothing to do with this fic, lmao

Courfeyrac made it to Jehan’s apartment by a little after ten.  On the way over he’d tried to convince himself a half dozen times that he should turn around, should head back to his Civil War class instead, and at a couple red lights he’d actually put his blinker on.  Every time he almost turned, though, he’d remembered that one way or another, he was going to have to bring it up eventually.  For better or worse it had happened, and he couldn’t wish the memories away, couldn’t close them out of his head. 

Likely worst of all, he didn’t really want to.  All of it was hazy but he could remember how the night had been chilly, how Jehan’s worn fingerless gloves had felt so soft against his cheek as he reached up to hold Courfeyrac in place.  His own fingers had tangled in Jehan’s hair, wrapping the little braid tucked behind his left ear up in his grip to tug his head back and bare his neck.  He’d trailed wet kisses along his jaw, pressed forward to pin Jehan against the railing when he whimpered and tilted his head back just a little farther.  His tongue had found Jehan’s pulse, slow with drink but speeding up under Courfeyrac’s mouth, and Jehan’s hands had found his shoulders like he could hardly hold himself up, and it was around then that he’d realized, God, he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t have started it and shouldn’t let it go any farther. 

Once he managed to get pull himself away, to stumble through a reason and guide Jehan to the couch, he headed outside to sleep in his car, and despite the cold he’d been too restless, unable to be still until he unbuttoned his jeans and stroked his cock, his head full of the taste of Jehan and honey whiskey, of the scent of flowers that always seemed to saturate his hair.  Courfeyrac came gasping his name, and he fell asleep with his pants still open, his body covered haphazardly by his coat and a beach towel from the floorboards left over from the summer. 

No, he couldn’t forget any of that, fuzzy as the edges of that night might have been. 

At Jehan’s door he hesitated, rubbed his thumb for a minute against the grain of the wood before he seized the knocker and slammed it down twice.  If he was here, he’d answer; he was a light sleeper.  If he was even asleep.  He might be out, might be-

Right there at the door, smiling at him. 

A little lost, Courfeyrac held up the plate he’d wrapped in cling wrap so it’d survive the car ride.  “Hey.  I made you breakfast.  You busy?” 

“Not at all, come on.” 

It was dark in Jehan’s apartment, the lighting terrible, but the place was cheap and he brightened it up with candles and a strange collection of lamps.  The couch built into the wall near the door was the most frequently occupied piece of furniture, strewn with pillows and blankets and as it was right next to the only window, it was the only part of the apartment to ever be bathed in sun.  Jehan’s favorite quilt was bunched up on it, pushed down not far from his computer and giving away where he’d been curled up next to it.  On the screen, words sprawled down to a blinking cursor, and Courfeyrac realized he’d been writing. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to-“

“Hey, you are always welcome; it was going nowhere anyway.  You want some coffee?”  He asked, but he was already padding barefoot into the kitchen, reaching up to pull down the coffee mug he knew Courfeyrac loved, the one with the softly panting cheetah, her eyes focused on her photographer with startling clarity. 

“Coffee’d be great; thanks.”  He’d had a cup of coffee with Grantaire before heading over, but another would be easily welcome, even if his jittery nerves didn’t need it. 

“So…”  Jehan cast a look back over his shoulder, a smile curling at the corner of his lips.  “You made me breakfast?” 

“I was up, and I’d seen this recipe the other day, so…”  He followed Jehan into the kitchen, slipped the plate onto the counter before he leaned next to it.  “Strawberry chocolate pancakes.”  Strawberry, because it was Jehan’s favorite; the chocolate _he_ had wanted. 

“Sounds amazing.”

“We should probably heat ‘em up, I think they-“  They reached for the saran wrap at the same time, his fingers brushing Jehan’s and God, how many times had they been right up on each other before and yet, he’d _never_ felt fire like that?  Scalded, Courfeyrac pulled his hand back, tried to make it slow and still; he failed, and he knew it was high time he went ahead and started tripping over his words.  Eyes downcast, he chipped anxiously at the remaining black polish on his right thumb.  “Listen, the other night-“

“It’s fine; don’t worry about it.”  _That_ he hadn’t really expected, that quick mutter, the hint of red in his cheeks as Courfeyrac’s head snapped up to take him in.  “I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have.  I thought maybe you’d forgotten but I should’ve known;  you’re far more used to alcohol than I am.  I usually don’t get that drunk but that’s no excuse, I shouldn’t have-“

“Wait, wait, sorry for what part?”  Jehan’s cheekbones flushed a deeper red, and if he hadn’t felt quite so much like a cat slapping its paws at a retreating string, Courfeyrac might have normally taken that as his cue to shut up.  But he’d said he _shouldn’t_ have, not that he didn’t want to, and that was a matter of semantics that could not be ignored.  “Because I was about to apologize to _you_ , so are you sorry it happened or sorry because you think I want you to be?  Because,-“  He had to pause, had to swallow hard because the minute he’d said ‘you think I want you to be’, he’d half tipped his hand and it was _terrifying_.  “-I know I don’t have the best track record, here, and yeah I was drunk, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t know what I was doing.  I just, whichever it is, that’s alright, I swear to God, but if there’s a chance you think this might be a good idea?  I want to talk about that, because…I think it’s a good idea.” 

Or a horrible idea, maybe, because oh God, if he lost Jehan…

“You do?”  He still didn’t look up, hands curled around the mug he’d just filled, leeching its warmth.

“I do.  I mean, yes and no.”  Fuck, that didn’t sound right.  He let out a frustrated sigh, raked his fingers through his curls before he leaned farther onto the counter, bringing him just a little closer to Jehan.  “See, I’m not just saying what happened was a good idea, if we do this, it’s not…I’m not talking about the kind of arrangement I had with Grantaire.  If we do this, I’d want it to be something real, so that’s what I mean when I say it’s a good idea and it isn’t, because you know me, I try but my relationships never last, I-“

“Why now?” 

“What?” 

“I never thought you...”  Jehan tucked his hair back, took a deep breath and spoke with his voice a little softer.  “What changed?”  

“Honestly?  Not a damn thing, I don’t think.  We’ve always been close, you and me, and I’d never thought too much into the why, or how it’s different, me and you and the way I feel about Grantaire; I never had to.  You were always here.  So maybe I’m an idiot, maybe I should’ve noticed, maybe I had this instinctive guard up against noticing because let me tell you, coming over here, all I could think was how I am scared to death I will fuck this up.  And if I hurt you, how could I bear that?”  Looking at Jehan, the round set of his shoulders, the way his lip was tugged back between his teeth, the uncertainty of all Courfeyrac didn’t know pierced him.  “Except I have, haven’t I?  Already?”  Jehan’s hands slipped from the mug to press hard against the edges of the counter, and Courfeyrac damn near flinched.  “How long?” 

“Since high school.  Freshman year, maybe.  Definitely after that.”  Holy God, how had he missed that much?  How had he never figured it out?  True, they were together more often than not, and Jehan had a habit of sprawling against him on the couch or on the floor but Jehan was tactile like that, so was he, he’d never thought-

He’d never thought. 

“But it’s fine, really, I never expected-“

“Well, you should’ve.”  His hand flexed, nails digging into his palm before he forced it open, held it out with only the slightest hesitation to scramble for words.  “So I was an idiot.  For longer than I knew, it seems.  But if I tell you now I should have done something, that I think this is worth trying, that I want to make the attempt if you agree, will you forgive me?  Jehan,-“ 

Jehan’s fingers closed around his, warm and strong, and he tugged Courfeyrac forward, pulled him all the way in until he could tangle his fingers in Courfeyrac’s hair and pull him down from a kiss.  He responded before his mind could even catch up, fingers disentangling from Jehan’s so he could wrap that arm instead around his waist, his other hand coming up to cup Jehan’s cheek.  That first kiss was frantic, more harried even than the drunk kisses he half remembered, and Courfeyrac let himself be swept up in it, mesmerized by the greedy way Jehan’s tongue sought his. 

When they broke apart it was only far enough for him to breathe against Jehan’s lips, to kiss the corner of his mouth and nuzzle roughly against the slight stubble he hadn’t yet shaved away.  Jehan was comprised of contrasts, slight and beautiful and masculine and strong; altogether, breathtakingly gorgeous.  Grantaire once had painted him as a fairy, not the kind society so often mocked with their impish faces and glittered wings but a fairy of old, beautiful and dangerous, slipping on wings the color of moonlight through the branches of a willow.  That was Jehan, a wild thing to be sought and treasured, a piece of the unknown you might beg to keep but could never manage to cage.  How, then, could he be so lucky as this, to have Jehan pressed against him, arms winding around his neck as he whimpered at the return of Courfeyrac’s lips to his?  It was beyond comprehension, to think that since _high school_ he’d wanted this, wanted and never asked.  The thoughts were heavy, demanding, but then Jehan’s hands were slipping under his shirt at the small of his back.  His touch was more insistent than any of Courfeyrac’s dozen questions, pushed them back to make room only for immediacy, for the staggering input of sensation, touch and taste and that ever present scent of flowers he knew came from Jehan’s shampoo but seemed all the same to come from the man himself. 

He moaned, encouraging those searching hands as he dipped his tongue again into Jehan’s mouth, following the hot burst of want that rose in his stomach with every stroke, every taste.  He pushed back, their movements clumsy for a moment until he pressed Jehan against the counter, tilted his head back to trail kisses from his lips down to his neck.  The response he’d had while drunk had been affecting, but _this_ , this was better, the way he cried out softly as Courfeyrac’s teeth brushed his skin, the way one hand left his back to clutch at the nape of his neck.  He sucked lightly, teasingly, and Jehan arched against him, clinging tight as a breathy murmur of “Please, oh God” slipped from him. 

He didn’t have to ask twice.  Courfeyrac bit down gently, sucking hard, nearly dizzy from the sounds Jehan made, from the throb of his own cock pressed hard against his jeans.  Fuck, he hadn’t been so hard from so little touch since he was 15.  Sliding his hands down he squeezed Jehan’s ass, moaned his approval when Jehan complied to the silent request and let Courfeyrac lift him to the counter, his legs wrapping vinelike around Courfeyrac’s waist.    Jehan’s hips rolled against him, almost as eager to press into the grip of his hands as he was Courfeyrac’s body.  He was panting, his fingers quivering against the nape of Courfeyrac’s neck as Courfeyrac finished marking him and pulled away. 

God, he was beautiful, hair disheveled, eyes wide and dark, lips wet and slightly swollen.  He looked like sex, like a fucking fantasy, and Courfeyrac wanted every bit of him, every desire he could imagine.  They could get off like this, he knew, clothed and still gripping at each other hard enough to bruise, or he could slick his fingers with that pretty mouth, feel the flick of his tongue and imagine how those lips would stretch around his cock, could even fall to his knees and take Jehan in instead, feel the weight of the cock he could feel pressing against him through the thin barrier of Jehan’s plaid pajamas.  _Fuck_ , he could…

Could do so much, and he was sure Jehan would let him, but that wasn’t the point, it wasn’t the point at all.  He wanted to do this _right_ , wanted it to be real, and it didn’t matter, really, that he knew Jehan was no virgin, or that he certainly wasn’t one himself, because this was different, it had to be.  This was different, and he couldn’t help but think that the first time they did this, it shouldn’t be in rushed desperation on the kitchen counter.  He hated to leave him like this, damn near shaking, aching to be touched, but he would have them both regret none of this, not a single piece.  He couldn’t shake what he felt; now wasn’t the time.  God _dammit_.

He slid his hands from Jehan’s ass to press against to cool surface of the laminated counter, all the colder to the touch because his palms felt like they were burning.  Still panting, he met Jehan’s eyes, spoke just as he could see he was about to question. 

“Have dinner with me.  Tonight.  Let me…let me do this properly.  Please.” He wanted desperately to start from steady ground, from a firm point that showed where he stood.  Besides, as long as he’d waited, he owed Jehan more than a few marks of commitment. 

Slowly, his legs uncurled from Courfeyrac’s waist.  It was all he could do not to gasp at the loss, to clutch at his knee to bring them back.  Instead, he held Jehan’s gaze, watched the way his smile lit those pretty blue eyes. 

“I’d love to.” 

Courfeyrac half laughed, more full of relief than he’d expected, and he pulled Jehan forward enough to kiss his forehead. 

“Thank you.” 

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I may be shit at this, you know.” 

“I don’t think you will be.”  It tugged on his heart, Jehan’s trust.  It was so very easily given, despite just how fragile the man’s heart could be.  He’d seen it broken by others, been there to help him pick up the pieces and yet every chance that presented itself, there he was, laying it right back out in every hand that reached for it. 

Eyes shut tight, he nuzzled against Jehan’s hair, lips just above his ear.  “Forgive me.” 

“I would, if I needed to.” 

\--------

That night, they were tourists.  They went to Barefoot Landing, the sprawling collection of shops that drew the tourists by the legions in the summer, connected by a maze of boardwalks and bridges, places Grantaire often set up to offer his skills as an artist to those passing by.  He’d drawn more waves and seagulls, alligators and sandpipers than most people could’ve stood but much as he sometimes mocked the tourists, Grantaire genuinely loved the coast and everything about it.  Courfeyrac knew; he’d known him all his life. 

Having grown up just down the road from the massive world of Myrtle Beach they usually went for the quieter places, out of the way and less well known and often better, but there was something to be said for those other places too, for lights and crowds and even a few gimmicks.  Sometimes, at least.  They ate at Fire Island, simple things, burgers and fries as they shared a strawberry margarita.  He kissed Jehan there at the table before they left, unable to wait.  Courfeyrac could taste on him the sugar off the glass rim, the tang of strawberries and alcohol.  Jehan blushed, but he smiled, reached out to lace their fingers and God it was worth it, would’ve been worth it if the whole damn room had been watching. 

They walked the bridges after that, slow, looking for the eye shine of gators on the black water, and in the middle of one they stopped, and he pulled out quarters for Jehan to feed the turtles like they had back when they were kids.  It was cold, Jehan in a black sweater with those purple gloves standing out though he still shivered, never wanting to go in but pressing closer to Courfeyrac’s side instead. 

It was perfect, fucking perfect, and when he took Jehan back home, it was all he could do to peel himself away before he gave in and let Jehan ask him to come in.  At that point, he wouldn’t have been able to resist.  (Just like he hadn’t trusted himself to resist that morning, had left and headed to class without even waiting for Jehan to try his breakfast.  It wasn’t the best, his self-control.  He didn’t want to push it.) 

Back home, he could hear the keys tapping furiously on Marius’ computer from up the stairs, see his light and hear the creak of his chair, and he wanted to stop in on him, distract him from his work and tell him everything, but he owed Grantaire a talk first.  Cosette’s light was out, and he kept himself quiet on the stairs, slipping down into the basement living room he and Grantaire shared.  He was pleasantly surprised to find Grantaire there, sprawled on the couch with his flask resting against the inside of one thigh as he watched iron Man for what had to be the millionth time.  He paused it the minute he saw Courfeyrac, eyes brightening as he pushed himself to sit up. 

“So?”

“I owe you one.” 

“I _knew_ it.”  He grinned, triumphant, held the flask out as Courfeyrac headed toward the couch.  He took it, but only to walk around behind the bar, cracking open the mini fridge to pull out two cans of coke.  He preferred to drink his whiskey like this, like they had since they were teenagers even though there was no need to disguise it anymore.  It just tasted right, and besides, he liked controlling how much Grantaire drank in one go, easing up a little on the liquor in his if he could manage it while Grantaire wasn’t watching.  It wasn’t addressing the issue and he wasn’t even really sure it did a damn thing, but he had to hope that in the long run, maybe he was helping at least a tiny chunk of Grantaire’s liver. 

He sat down on the arm of the couch, passed Grantaire his can and clinked his own lightly against it. “Congratulations on being right.  Like I said, I owe you one.” 

“Ah, no you don’t.  So tell me; I want everything.” 

Courfeyrac was quite used to telling him everything.  So, he rambled, told the story in full as best he could with Grantaire curled up against the arm of the couch, both of them sipping Jameson and coke until Courfeyrac got up to pour them both a second. 

His story and his rambled fears for the future died down, his throat dry from all the talking he’d done, and he realized right about then that for all he’d seen Grantaire and Enjolras all over each lately around the house, he had no idea how the hell it was actually going. 

He stretched out his leg, nudged Grantaire’s thigh with the tip of his shoe. 

“Alright, _you_ tell me.  How is it, with him?” 

“Amazing.  It’s fucking amazing, shit, I can’t begin to…”  He waved his hand, set down his can a little clumsily.  Well, he _had_ gotten a head start on the drinking.  “He’s amazing.”

“D’you tell him yet?” 

“Tell him what?”  The way his eyes narrowed, there was no way he didn’t know the ‘what’; not even drunk. 

“R, if you can’t trust him enough to tell him what you want-“

“I trust him, I do, but _Christ_ , do you know how that sounds?  Just think about it for a second; imagine how it would sound to anyone but _you_.  I can’t ask him-“

“So you trust him, but you don’t trust him not to judge you?”

“That’s not what I-“

“Then what _do_ you mean?  C’mon, say it.” 

Frustrated, Grantaire pushed off the couch to weave a bit unsteadily to the sliding glass door, his hand pressing to the metal frame.  When he spoke, he muttered to his reflection in the glass. 

“He’s gonna see how fucked up I am soon enough, Courfeyrac.  No need for me to hand it to him.  Fuck, who even asks that of someone else?  All he’ll see is childhood abuse or some shit, something wrong with me, something-“

“For the last _fucking_ time, _there is nothing wrong with you_.”  Of all he could’ve said, _that_ line always made Courfeyrac seethe the most.  Of all the weight Grantaire already carried, depression and fear and all the old emotional scar tissue, he didn’t deserve to be shamed by the world, didn’t deserve to feel he needed to shame himself.  So his kinks were unconventional, so he got off on a little pain; what did it matter?  In Courfeyrac's opinion it didn’t, not so long as Grantaire was always the one calling the shots.

He couldn’t help but feel some of _did_ come from his father, the shame, not the desire.  He’d beat it so far into Grantaire’s head that he wasn’t right, wasn’t right, had never been right, and knowing all he knew about himself, knowing how the world felt about the things he sometimes enjoyed, Grantaire had found all new ways to apply those old broken records.  Every time he tried it, Courfeyrac did his damn best to break them. 

He stood, only a little more steady on his own feet, and he crossed to the window to press his hand to Grantaire’s spine, feel the tension as it bowed tight under his fingers. 

“There isn’t a damn thing wrong with you, Grantaire.  You enjoy what you enjoy; there’s no shame in that.  And if he thought there was, he wouldn’t be a man worthy of you.  But honestly?  Hard as it is for me to give that label to anyone, I think he just might deserve it.” 

Grantaire leaned against the glass, breath fogging the surface, obscuring his image.  “I don’t have to have it.  I’d get used to it; people give things up for relationships all the time.” 

“They do, but giving it up without even finding out if you need to?  That’s not noble; that’s fear.  And to be completely honest with you-“  He hated to, he really hated to, and maybe he shouldn’t say it, but- “-I think it’s good for you.  It’s a release and a high for you, emotional and physical, and I worry what you might turn to if you didn’t have it.  And I know if it doesn’t come from him, you won’t be going anywhere else, not now.  So yes, I think it’s very important that you talk to him, for your sake _and_ his.  If you love him, you should give him the respect of not treating him like he’ll cast you out like a leper.” 

In the silence, Grantaire pressed just a little back into his palm, pulling strength from that point of contact.  Courfeyrac pressed harder. 

“And how would I even start?  ‘By the way, if you’ve got a knife, I can just about get off from a few well placed marks?’ “  His laugh sounded more like a choking sound, his shoulders tightening.  “I can see it now; that’d go over excellently.”

“Actually…”  His mind turned, kicking around and discarding almost as rapidly a dozen openings before he remembered; in his room, he had a few supplies left over from the nights he’d taken Grantaire into his bed.  There were knives, yes, but that wasn’t an opening, that was an ‘eventually’.  The handcuffs, though, those were tame, almost innocent.  “You’re right.  Best to start slowly.  I’ll give you the opening, but I need you to take it.”

“Oh no, what the hell are you-“

“Just.  Take it.” 

Grantaire shifted, his forehead falling from the back of his hand to the glass with a thud.  Gently, Courfeyrac rubbed at the tension in his spine.  No matter what he’d said, not a single muscle had eased. 

 


End file.
